The Time Has Passed for Photographs

The time has passed for photographs.
Snaps of sexy quick light whirligig good looks –
of grabbing fast at asses – of sweet unguarded

poses where a neck, exposed, could make
a lens erect – far-from-circumspect avowals
that a blurry photo could evince from all

the all-but naked body’s consonants and vowels
as they soar and pour upon a sunlit beach –
just in reach of being caught by some quick

lustful wistful thumb upon a button: all that
teaches all the truth it can, and leaves its residue
of youth in albums. Cameras don’t ask

for your attention anymore: you implore
a different eye for an experience of you: another
sort of scrutiny may indicate the “true”: not

to do with anything to catch: nothing that
a photograph foments in memory can match
the life you’re feeling in the current face of things.

You’d like to think you’ve found a place for
rueful and uncapturable grace: which can’t
be taped upon a piece of paper: but still sings.



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